Travelogue 20, Punta del Diablo, Uruguay: Hostile at the Hostel

Site seen on a hike to Laguna Negra. Their expressions crack me up.

 

Much love to all,g

Travelogue 19, Uruguay: Happy Thanksgiving From Afar

Dearest Friends and Family,
I again greet you on a Sunday morning from "my office," the partially-private alcove on the second floor of the hostel. This window seat  is  prime real estate and the early bird gets the arm chair.

It's not for the view, however,

but rather the electricity outlet and a temporary reprieve from dance floor foot traffic of the comings and goings of hostel life . We have been near full capacity (54 guests) this week and the introverts like me are exhibiting mouselike behavior. Thank goodness I've got my tent to retreat to, which I have moved to a quieter location since the last travelogue. I’m across the street now, so hidden in a clump of bushes that not even the most observant of passerbys would detect me.
I I feel like a kid in a hideout--fun!
An announcement of my new hood on Facebook brought out the momma hen in my friends--“Are you crazy? Get back across that street! You’ll be robbed, raped, dismembered limb by limb!” they exclaimed.  “I forbid it!” even said one.  I slept with a hatchet by the pillow for the first few nights after these comments were made and then decided the likelihood of any of that happening is about the same as  the Boogieman my brothers swore would get me was.
Just in case, however, I made a little dog house outside the door for the hostel hound, Pelusa (mother of my beloved Buho), for protection. She’s an overly sensitive security system and sets off  the bark alarm at the passing of any dog,  drunkard or lizard.

(I've had prettier neighbors.)

I’ve gotten used to it, though, and go right back to sleep.
Anyway, enough about housing.   Of late, I have been receiving this question, “How are you….REALLY?”  The tag leads me to assume first, that there is doubt that I might be well and second, that, “Fine, thanks, and you?,” will not do as a response. The answer is, more content than I would be, feeling stagnate in the rut my life had become in Dallas. Do I roll out of my tent every morning grinning like a Cheshire cat eager to greet the day? Not yet. That's the goal, be it a tent or a mansion I'm exiting each morning.
I have gotten exactly what I asked for…a change and challenge, but with the uprooting necessary to bring that about has come a resurgence of all my “issues.” It’s been humbling. Some days I feel like a pouty 2 year old, others an indignant teenager, others a cranky old lady.  And then there are the days when I feel I am exactly where I am "supposed" to be, meeting the people who I need to influence and who need to influence me. I see a pair of nesting owls in the dunes or flowers blooming out of nothing but parched sand and remember just how blessed I am to be in new surroundings.
-----
It's now Wednesday, I'm wiped out from working the overnight, so I'm going to tie this up with random writings and photos, so I can get it out in time to wish you Happy Thanksgiving. Of the 365 days we are gifted a year, T-day is my favorite and it's been over 15 years since I've missed the 1'o'clock feast at the homeplace followed by the annual Cowpatty Bowl touch football game played in the pasture. I'm nostalgic, but will try to stay focused on the natural beauty surrounding me and be thankful for what I have where I am and where I'm not.
My job:  For the first three weeks it had my back muscles in knots, my patience in the red and my temper at boiling. A receptionist, I imagined, would answer the phone, receive guests warmly, show them their room, check them in and out and occasionally have to deal with an unsatisfiable asshole who says the towels aren’t soft enough. No, no,no--I spend hours in front of the computer trying to figure out which of the 11 types of rooms we have are available, how many beds are in them, how much they cost during the week, how much they cost on the weekend, how much the price goes up during high season, do they have an ocean view, what % of a deposit the guest has to make, will they be making it on Paypal or wiring it, etc. Then there is keeping track of the money. We work with 5 currencies and when you get some German who has been making a whirwind tour through the south of South America, this is the scenario: we charge everything in US dollars, his bill is $350,  he  wants to put part on his credit card and pay the rest  with some  Brazilian reales,  part with Argentinian pesos  and prefers  his change in euros because he’s returning home.  I have some euros, but the rest must be in Uruguayan pesos.  Put that one on an algebra exam and see how many pass. It's frequent that at the end of my shift the box ends up short or over and it's got nothing to do with my honesty or generosity.
I've started teaching language classes to the staff and guests, and I'm enjoying it. What a difference it makes to teach someone who actually wants to learn! It seems a ridiculous statement to make, but for 11 years I felt like I was force-feeding knowledge. Now, I've nests of open mouths awaiting worms. The other upside to the is fewer hours in reception and only 1 overnight shift per week.
My social life: I don't exactly fit in at the hostel. Here’s an excerpt from a travelogue I started writing to you on October 30:
"Down below in the commons area, the youngsters are assisting one another in the recollection of their most asinine drunken acts of absurdity last night. "Dude, like you were so wasted you threw up all over the girl you were dancing with."   "Man, that's nothing, do you remember taking off your shirt and  pretending you were a black widow screwing a boy spider on the ceiling?" Given there was a Halloween party in the bar, the competition is stiff.  Glory be that I had to work my first graveyard shift and thus didn't have to get mean with my polite decline to attend.  Drunks are insistently obnoxious and I'm obnoxiously insistent in just saying no. As my college mates will tell you, I've never conformed to sloshery under the vice of peer pressure. Not that these are my peers. I could be their momma. As the old hen of this hostel nest, however,  I look at these whippersnappers and feel concern. Some drag in at 6:30 a.m., just in time for a 7 a.m. shift (or don't as in the case of my replacement this morning) hung over as hell dawn after dawn."
Not everyone is like that, but the majority are here to party. I’m finding my friends in the village--a supercool woman from Spain, for example, my same age who owns a set of rental cabanas a ways up the road. Most exciting of all, I met a botonist on the bus who wants to give nature tours in the national park that borders the town. We did a trial run this morning and I am so pumped up to start giving my first eco-tours. I’m doing the marketing, organizing and translating and he’s doing the guiding, teaching and storytelling. The serendipity of him chosing a seat beside me on the bus and me feeling lead to start a conversation with him seems like a Universal conspiracy to me.  We are very much in the planning stages, but even if it doesn’t pan out, just the idea of combining all of my passions--Nature, education, spirituality and Spanish--revs me up.
Weather permitting, I've started the habit of taking coffee and my journal down the water's edge first thing in the morning to greet the day.

The wind will blow the hide right off your hair, as Pop would say, and piles up wads of sea suds.

I'm off to the tent to try to recoop the lost hours of shut eye. I leave you with a sunrise, much love and wishes of a most happy Thanksgiving, G

Travelogue 18, Uruguay: Lucia and the Aussie

Hello All! I have come to the conclusion that people are much more interested in simply ''how's it goin'' than whether or not my sentences have parallel structure and my commas are all in place, so I'm going to try to spend less time on form and more on info so I hit "send" once a week instead of every two or three. Requests for updates make me feel loved. Thank you.
It’s a dreary morning that has zapped me of the umph to go for a run. So, I sit in a tiny alcove in the hostel, the only partially private space in the place, O.D.ing  on coffee and writing. When I started this update a few days ago it began:
“Topping the news, Buho is a girl, not a boy!" The situation now is that my little Buho has been missing since Saturday afternoon and I’m heartbroken. Her brother and sister are still here, too here…they scratched at my tent all night, chewing on the tent poles, whining and wanting in.  Everytime I walk out the door and the remaining two attack my shoelaces I feel profoundly sad. I’m praying someone hasn’t taken her and she’s just wandered from home and will find her way back.
Before heading into wild tales of hostel life, a recurring question from friends and family begs answering: “I thought you were going to be a tour guide?!!!”  I am going to be a tour guide!… that is the goal, there is just a detour. I accepted this job at the same time I signed up for the tourism course and I want to keep my commitment here. The hostel experience will be very useful as a guide/director since I will be working closely with hotels/hostels in making accommodation arrangements. Too, all types of travelers pass through and tell me about the places they recommend seeing.  So, no worries…hostel receptionist is a transitory step toward tour directing.

Back to hostel life, I’ve made a new friend, Little Lucia, the maid’s nose-picking 6 year old. She waits for me every morning on the deck for coffee and buggars. My explanation of germ transmission went in one nostril and out the other, so I’ve just accepted it as part of the package. At first I thought her cute and was excited to have a kid to play with. Those thoughts and feelings lag. Dialoging with her is as tiring as trying to make small talk with 90-year-old suffering a hearing aid short.  Here is a transcript of our meeting:
Me: Hi!  What’s your name?
Lucia: eehhh???
-What’s your name?
-Lucia.
-How old are you?
-eehhh?
-How old are you?
-six.
-Do you go to school?
--eehhh?
--Do you go to school?
--yes
--What grade are you in?
--ehhh?
-What grade are you in?
--First
Suspecting a hearing problem, I stopped repeating the question to see if “eh?” was a trained response or a sincere need for repetition. It’s a Pavlov’s bell. If I wait about 7 seconds, she foregoes the “eh?” and answers the question. This requires much patience on my end.
When the tide is turned and she’s interrogating it goes like this:
Lucia: What’s your name?
Me: Gigi
--your name is Gigi?
--Yes, that’s my name.
--What are you doing?
-I’m drinking coffee.
--You’re drinking coffee?
--yes, I’m drinking coffee.
--What’s that book?
--it’s my diary.
--That’s your diary?
--yes, that’s my diary.
--why aren’t you writing up here (she points to the blank space at the top of the page)?
--because there is no line there.
--You’re not writing there because there is no line there?
--correct.
--that’s correct?
--Yes, that's what I said.
--Why don’t you draw a line up there?
-because I don’t want to.
--You don’t want to?
--Holy mother of Zeus and the grandmother who bore her, NO, I DON’T WANT TO!!! Don’t you have to get ready for school or something?!!!

These behaviors are not just verbal in nature. When I return from a run, I do some yoga stretches on the deck. After a series of what are you doing’s and why’s, she attempts every down dog, up dog, pigeon pose and tree stance I do, with an abundance of accompanying "eh?"s, questions and rhetorical answers.

The snorers have forced me to the back yard and Little Lucia was insistent on "helping" me erect the tent. I'd throw a shovel full of sand into my foundation and she would scoop it out. I'd drive in a stake and she would pull it out. Every move I made, "!Yo te ayudo!" (I'll help you!!). I couldn't stop thinking about when I was her age and at Pop's side every single second possible, ready to hold the board still or hand the pliars or flip on the switch, but without ever saying a word unless I was asked a question. Dad and I spent hours and hours together in total silence without an ounce of tension. We were just in the moment listening to the wind and the cows and the hammer hitting a nail. I treasure those moments, especially now that Pop is on day 16 in the hospital.
Otherwise, I’ve completed week 2 and it’s a hairy contrast to the first. I was feeling as flexible as saltwater taffy in an afternoon sun before the reality of working for other people set in. I’ve committed myself to going with the flow, but at present, my intestinal system is the only cooperating partner, with the help of an armtwisting laxative.  To be explained later, my main source of sustenance is white bread, dulce de leche and cheese, which is like a greasy hairball in a drain.
I knew I was coming to Latin America and things would first, rarely go as expected and second, take ten times longer to be fixed than one would hope. Knowing and experiencing are two different things. Success in my little receptionist job relies upon a limited set of variables with an infinite number of possible fuck-up permutations. On any given day, it is a given fact that one, usually more, of the following will happen: water pump goes out, water heater goes out, internet stops working, no dial tone on phone, electricity is on the blink, a propane tank is empty, the bread lady is late (which is the one I most dread because people want a timely breakfast!) and the maintenance man is MIA.
Then there are the guests. We’ve had an obese (at least 375 lbs) Australian man staying with us for four weeks. On paper we speak the same language, but in conversation, out of every 100 words he says, I catch 5.   He may as well be speaking Russian and talking politics. Anyway, Paul has taking a liking to me, mostly because I “listen” to his ramblings and say “un-hu” periodically. So the other night I’m working the 3pm-11pm shift and he makes a big Aussie chicken and pasta dish that he insists on sharing with me. I eat as much as I can and hide the rest behind the reception desk. Then my mate takes to drinking--3 Pepsis and a fifth of Jack Daniels he bought at the duty-free shop in the Brazilan border town, Chuy. Uninvited, he bellies up to the reception desk and proceeds to get drunk as a boiled owl (there’s a Mangus Hollow expression for ya) while blabbering on about running 20 miles a day with a 50lb ruck sack and sleeping with some famous Aussie jazz singer. I opened the shit sack wide and let him fill it to his heart's content.
 At long last he stumbles off, I assume to bed, and I try to get some work done. Shortly thereafter, an Argentinean guest comes to report that someone is very sick outside. I open the front door to Paul heaving all he has consumed onto the front deck of the hostel. Geezus f’n Christmas.  Five trips later with mop buckets full of water I’ve cleared a path for guests to enter. I look at Paul, who has not even lifted a foot out of the way, and he is poking his cheek with his finger as if he’d just had 10 shots of Novocain for a root canal and isn’t sure if he still has a face or not.
I leave him be and return to my duties. Then a guest comes to say someone out front is chocking.  Paul again, but this time, he’s gagging. Holy fuck. There is no way in hell I can do the Heimlick on this guy. My arms won’t even reach across one rack of ribs. I’d have to whack him on the back with a stick of firewood to even attempt dislodging an obstructed windpipe. He gasps and coughs and heaves, so I know he is getting some air.  I leave him be again. Finally, he wanders in and goes to bed.  For the rest of my shift we hear him back there coughing.  His roomate asks to change rooms and I'm off duty. He apologized, best as I could understand him, the next morning.
So, there's enough for now. I'm healthy (now that the pipes has cleared) and enjoying the diversity of my coworkers. It's windier than a floor fan, and 10 degrees too chilly for me, but I sleep in my tent and like it.  Off to yoga in a pine shack--I was shocked to find a yoga class, though we be 2 ft apart and on a dusty oriental rug.

A pic a friend from El Camino de Santiago sent me

Mucho love, Gigi

Travelogue 17, Uruguay: The Diablo is Tranquilo

My Dearest Friends and Family,
Greet-tens’ from Punta del Diablo, Uruguay!

Woowzy am I ever behind on updates. In Spain I started on the El Camino de Santiago story, but then began my little writing tutoring gig on-line and was sick of the computer screen and writing by the end of my shift. Here, I don’t know where my time goes. It only takes me 10 seconds to get to work since my dorm room is 20 ft from the reception. I’ve just been settling in, I suppose, trying to get oriented in this little village of a few hundred people. It really is rustic. We have one supermarket that is about as big as a two car garage It offers the most essential of staples and one, max two, brands of products to choose from. It’s the hub of most social activity, very similar to the Walmart in my hometown in that respect.


Before I get more into life here, a few words about my arrival. A generous rain received my plane in Montevideo. A monsoon received my ass in Punta del Diablo after a 5 hour bus ride, which has a story of its own. I was dumped off the bus at the intersection of five dirt roads in a wind-ridden downpour and told my destination was up the road.  No sort of street name guidance was given because the streets aren’t really streets, but wide muddy paths, and they don’t have names. If you recall from the Greyhound bus story, I am my own mule and thus carry the big hiker’s pack on my back, the daypack on my chest and drag the suitcase behind. So, there I stand at the crossroads, can’t see forty feet in front of me, but start off up the indicated road swerving around puddles ankle deep and trying to shelter the daypack to keep my laptop and journal dry.
Seventy-five yards up I see a tiny building to the left with a bit of roof overhang that looks enough like shelter for me to stand under til I get my bearings. It turns out to be the town pharmacy. It took some sweet talking, but the pharmacist finally called El Diablo Tranquilo to have someone come pick me up. Such was my arrival to my new home for the next 6 months.

As usual, the airplane ride to get me here brought out the best in me--a sense of humor. I had posted a prayer on Facebook that the travel gods grant me a decent seatmate. Here was their response:
I deborded the Madrid-Buenos Aires leg of the trip spotted like a Dalmatian, having shared seat space on an overnight flight with a gangly preteen for thirteen hours. The problem was he was too old to sit in his mama’s lap, but too young to sit still. His attempts to curl up like a pup in his seat resulted in a flurry of knee and elbow gabs that left me bruised and sleepless. Just as my conscious mind would reach the edge of the slumber dropoff, the restless youngster would reaccomodate and send an isosceles triangle jabbing into my ribs. Another shift and a knobby knee spears into my thigh. Then he would flop his head over onto my forearm, which was not so bad since he had a normal, round head. He was a sweet enough kid and apologized when he was awake enough to hear my groans.
About 30 mins before landing, my little bumper buddy starts getting green around the gills. He rocks back and forth holding his stomach and suddenly grabs my blankie to throw over his lap. I just know he is going to heave and I cover my face with my sweatshirt and cringe down in the seat as if watching a scary movie.
His wave of nausea passes and I ask him if there is a barf bag in the seatback pocket in front of him. He doubles over without answering and mom and I scramble to find one. I pass him the plastic bag my pillow and blanket were wrapped in. He asks to get out to go to the lavatory and the flight attendant sends him back because the fasten seatbelt sign is lit. Five minutes later he sees adults ignoring the instructions and again tries to sneak to the john. No go. He’s sent back by the unsympathetic woman in the blue uniform.
All of a sudden, I hear around me groans of discomfort. Minutes later, I kid you not, there was a lift off of ½ digested egg and ham baguette projectiles missiles going off like popcorn in a hot skillet. The flight attendants grab handfuls of white paper sacks and scurry down the aisles handing them out like immigration forms. On a whim, when I bought my ticket, I had checked the veggie meal box. When my stewed eggplant and potato entrée was set on my tray and I saw  everbody else was having paella, I regretted my decision to spare a chicken the chopping block.  Outright remorse set in when they got cheesecake for desert and I had orange wedges. As so often happens, a seemingly disappointing decision turned out for the best. There was something in the carnivores’ breakfast that hit the young tyke first and then damned the adults shortly after.
Back to my new “home.”
The living arrangements are college-like. I share a five bunkbed dorm room at the moment with 5 people, soon to be ten. When the high season hits, our room will be rented to guests and we will be displaced to an undisclosed location. By that time, if not sooner, my tent will be erected out back by the closeline. Snoring is becoming an issue and everyone swears they never snore. They are just stuffy due to catching the sniffles that has been running through the staff. That is no wonder given that we share a tiny outdoor kitchen that would get an F- on an OSHA test. The dishwashing sponge looks like it served toilet duty for a month before retiring to the kitchen.
We are an international crew of all ages. Alex is a blonde Brit and the youngest of us at this hostel. We have two locations, one on the beach that is for the party scene

and the one “up the hill” where I work that’s more family oriented and chilled out.

Adam, a Dutch artist, and Jasmine, a vegetarian Austrian, arrived after me and are an odd couple. My other roommate, John, is a vagabond American who has been teaching English all over the world. He’s a sweetheart of a guy and is a talented guitar player. My immediate supervisor, Rod, is a young Chilean and a strange mix of anal retentive and laidback.  And finally, Jess, the head manager, is the owner’s girlfriend and easy to get along with. Young surfer dudes work at the other hostel. Mostly they get stoned, drink, ride the waves and do the minimum amount of work to keep their job. I get along fine with them.
At the moment my greatest source of joy is Chata’s little baby brother, Buho (pronounced boo-oh, which means owl in Spanish). The hostel dog, Pelusia, had given birth a few weeks before my arrival and her 5 pups were living under the front porch. Two have given away.

I claimed Buho ASAP. He is the runt of the bunch (I’m partial to small beings), the funniest and fluffiest. I’ve snuck him in under my shirt a few times to sit by the fire, but I’ve resisted the temptation to have him spend the night in my bed, not because he might chew on my nipple, but because if he wets or poops, it would be a big pain in the patooty to wash my sleeping bag. Just like with Chata, this creature and I have a soul connection.


I have to tell you, I don’t like writing ho -hum, boring travelogues such as this one, but people keep ask for some sign of life and how it goes, so I’m sending this as is.
Elsewhere in the news, Pop has been in the hospital for a week with a ruptured hernia and bronchitis. I was thinking I might have to buy a ticket home, but he says to me, “Don’t you worry, Runt, I’m a tough old coot (another of his unique expressions). The old man will pull through.” He’s got a new grandson on the ground to keep him motivated.
And finally, Marta has put the bar up for sale to give it a try here in Uruguay with me. She has a job waiting on her as a chef in the restaurant here. It’s just a question of getting rid of the bar.
So there you have a bit of news. There is tons more, some of it potentially entertaining, but I’ll save it for the next one. It’s my day off, the sun is FINALLY out and I want to walk the beach.



Would love to hear from you.

Travelogue 16, Spain: Let Go of the Boots, G!

Dearest Friends and Family,
I'm on a roll--two travelogues in one week! I’m still behind though, so before we get to the El Camino de Santiago, here’s what was the latest two weeks ago, prefaced with an anecdote about my brother, included for illustrative purposes for what's to follow.
Prior to coming to visit me for the first time in Dallas, my oldest brother, Andy, says to me during our annual Happy Thanksgiving phone wish, “If I can get the time off from work, I thought I might stop in to see you on my way back to New York from Mexico.” (His fiancé lived there and he was going to spend Christmas with her.)
“Great!” I respond, “I would love to see you! When should I expect you?”
“Sometime after the holidays,” he says, “I’ll let you know.”
Along about mid December, I’ve heard nothing, so I inquire about his plans and he says he’s definitely going to Mexico, but he hasn’t bought the tickets yet and he’ll let me know about coming to Dallas. Christmas comes and goes and no word, so I figure he decided not to come.
January 1, 8:30 a.m., I’m jolted from a post-party passout into this exchange:
“Hell-low.”
“Hey, G. Happy New Year. Did I wake you?”
“Oh, no…I was just getting up,” I lied. I know the person on the other end is either a family member or a close friend because they are the only ones who sub my two syllable name with one letter, but I can’t place the voice. “Happy New Year to you….who is this?”
“It’s Andy,” he says with a muted, but palpable well, who the hell do you think it is?
“Oh, hey, what’s going on?”
“We’re out here taxiing on the tarmac.”
“Tarmac? What tarmac? Where are you?”
“I’m at the airport..…in Dallas,” he answers with a clearly communicated, but unstated where do you think I am, dummy?  “How long will it take you to come pick me up?”
“Dallas? Pick you up? Did I miss something? An email? A phone message?”
“I told you I was coming to visit after the holidays.”
He’s damn lucky I love him so much or I would have told him that the holidays are not officially over until tomorrow and left his ass at the airport with instructions to go sweep the tarmac with a broom.
What does this have to do with a travelogue from Spain? He illustrates a certain class of people who assume, with a nerve grating certainty, that others know what they are thinking. They, themselves, are not telepathic, but they believe everyone else is, or should be. Marta apparently suffers from the same communication deficit disorder, which I became aware of when we went camping in Santander:
When I hear the word “camping” my ears perk up and I start salivating like my Pekingese when she hears “treat.” Marta decides that since the big Valladolid fair ended on Sunday and the whole town will be hungover until Wednesday, it would be a good time to close the bar for a few days and take a camping trip to the northern coast. No arm twisting necessary on my end. Days in advance I start asking for details--I want a full description of the topography, climatology, activityology, facilities available, etc. I’m a planner, not just because I derive great satisfaction from seeing a plan successfully executed, but because I abhor those, “I wish I had brought….” moments that are avoidable with a bit of forethought. They undo me and plunge me into a childish, nasty mood, which I will own upfront. To not have what I need, had I known what I would be needing, had I had a reliable source of information communicate it to me, is absolutely inexcusable.  I resent having to take my attention off enjoying the pleasure at hand and putting it on adjusting my attitude to accepting an avoidable disappointment.
No need to point out that I am the source of much of my own suffering, I know it already.
I notice that after a few questions about what I should expect, my inquiries are addressed with increasingly short replies, never angry or ugly, but with a tamed exasperation, much like a mother who’s scrapping the bottom of the patience bucket to attend to the 3-year-old’s incessant, “Why? Why? Why?”. Marta seems to assume that either I should know, or don’t need to know this information, despite never having camped in Spain or with her.
Not wanting to be a bother, I reduce my questions down to the bone and decide I will deduce enough essential information from the clues given to pack. Here you have the results of that flawed strategy:
Communication deficit #1: clothing
Should I take my hiking boots?
No
Well then, I conclude, we are going to a warm, sandy beach that stretches for miles and miles. I’ll be barefoot most of the time and sandals will suffice for short treks across hot sand.
Will it be chilly? I hold up my Northface waterproof, polar fleece, hooded coat and point to it with an inquisitive look.
We are going to the coast.
That answer could go either way. It’s been hotter than a Georgia tin roof in July in Valladolid since I got here ….but we are going north…. Undecided, I throw it into the ‘maybe’ pile, where it has a very brief stay.
I take a second pair of pants from the drawer and stuff them in my packback.  She shakes her head. What are you taking all this stuff for? It’s only 2 nights.
“I like to be prepared, but if you think I won’t need it…..” Out come the pants and the extra shirts and the socks. The abandoned coathanger on the bed slides back under the coat’s shoulders and both return to the closet.
Communication run amuck # 2.: distance from car to tent site
Shall I fill up the 2 gallon jug in the kitchen with water to take with us?
No, there’s a spigot
We must be car camping if there is a spigot, so everything will be close by and we won’t have to carry stuff very far.
Communication fowl-up #3: food
What are we going to eat?
I don’t know. I’ll think of something.
Can we make a campfire?
Nope.
O.K. then, I need to help prepare a menu and it will be of non-cookables.
Misassumption #4: supplies
Shall I pack some cups and plates and stuff to eat with from the kitchen?
No, I’ve got stuff at the bar.
She’s taking care of all that, so I need not worry about it.
Communication fuck-up  #5: departure time
What time are we leaving?
After lunch. I want to do a few things in the bar before we go.
I begin calculations. Lunch here is a 2 p.m. So we get to the bar at 12, work, eat , leave around 3, it’s a 3 hour drive, get there at 6, we’ll have plenty of time to set up the tent before dark, settle in, have a relaxing glass of wine and watch the sunset as we dine.
Ha! In my dreams. At 12 o’clock she’s rolling out of the bed. At 2 p.m. we still haven’t left the house to go to the bar. By 3 o’clock we’re still in the bar without having eaten. At 4 we are still pootin’ around (Pop’s expression) mopping floors and shining glasses. At 6 we are in the car, but still have to stop at the sister’s to drop off keys and then get the groceries.
Attempts at organizing a menu have been futile, and I Hate, with a capital “H” to follow someone around a store, so I grab my own basket and say, “meet you at the check out.” Fifteen minutes later, she looks in my basket and says, You know it’s at least 2 kilometers from the car to where we are camping. Are you going to carry all that?
What?!! #@$%^&*(@#!$%! 2 kilometers? Why didn’t you tell me that before!! So back I go, retracing my steps to downsize my purchases:  the 1 liter orange juice for a 3 pack of kiddie lunchbox juices with straws taped to the side, a loaf of bread for a pack of crackers, etc.
I look in her basket and she’s got cans of soups and pasta and asparagus. In other words, heavy things that require flame. “Are you going to carry that?... and how are you planning on heating it if we can’t make a fire?” I ask.
I have a camping stove, but I need to stop by a store to get some propane.
What?!! #@$%^&*(@#!$%! Another stop? A stove? Why didn’t you tell me that!! I got peanut butter and tuna fish when we have the means to make hot meals???
A stop for propane, a stop for gas and at last we are on the road.

We arrive to a gravel parking lot on the coast just in time to catch the last possible photo of the sunset. She takes me to the edge of a cliff and points down at a stretch of beach that from our vantage point looks about the size of a Band-Aid.
That’s where we are going to camp.

What?!! #@$%^&*(@#!$%! “How do we get down there?”
She sweeps her arm over to the left to indicate a barely visible tan colored line zig zagging down the side of a mountain.
What?!! #@$%^&*(@#!$%! That’s not just 2 kilometers! That’s 2 kilometers of  goat grade terrain!
We load each other down like a pair of mules porting a royal court into the Grand Canyon for a week stay and start the 2 K stumble down a dirt and rock road in the plum stark of night. Besides the bigass packs on our backs, each has a grocery bag of food in hand pulling us toward a face flop and a sleeping roll tucked under an armpit.
“Don’t bring your hiking boots, my ass,” I mutter to myself. Every fifteen steps I’ve got a rock under the sole of my foot and have to stop to stomp the toe of my sandal to shake it out. It was during this descent that the previously mentioned, “I wish I had brought….” poisoned my well-being like arsenic in an oasis. It wasn’t just that I didn’t have appropriate footwear. It was that I didn’t have my hiking boots, the ones I bought special, throwing months and months of penny pinching to the wind to make a purchase of the highest quality in honor of the life changing journey upon which I am embarking. I had only worn them through the airport and I was chomping at the bit to break them in on some short hikes.
When I step in a hole and about take a tumble I have to ask why in the hell we didn’t leave earlier.
We couldn’t leave any earlier. We’re camping illegally. They would catch us if we set up before dark. Why do you think I told you we couldn’t have a campfire? 
What?!! #@$%^&*(@#!$%! Illegally? There are lots of reasons, legal ones, for why we wouldn’t have a campfire--draught, fire bans, no firewood, park rules. Why in the world would I ever assume that it was because it would blow our cover and get us arrested?
4 switchbacks later, we’ve hit sand and I drop my shit with a thud the zillions of white grains absorb. Marta combs the beach by flash and starlight for a suitable spot to pitch the tent

while I stand like a one legged stork, plucking gravel from between my toes and stewing over my hiking boots. I could give a rat’s ass at this point where the tent goes, but she takes her time before deciding on a stretch about 30 yards away behind a row of rocks some tiny tot has lined up to protect his sand castle.

All I want to do is get the tent set up, have a glass of wine and get some vittles in my gut, in that order.
The first task complete, she pulls from a canvas bag a white plastic disposable picnic bowl so flimsy that the average dollop of potato salad would bring it to its knees.
“We don’t have any cups?”
No.
In the accident-waiting-to-happen she pours white wine from a waxy, green box and passes it to me as if it were a million dollar golden egg rolling around on a warped plate of blown glass.  Three sips later it buckles and my flannel p.j.’d crotch gets a bath in cheap chardonnay. I have no extra clothes suitable for sleeping, so I resign myself to wet dreams of having peed the bed.
She unfolds the crease in the bowl and pours steaming lentil soup into it. I volunteer to eat straight from the pot.

It’s about 15 degrees chiller than in Valladolid and my feet are cold, as is the rest of me. I want my coat and my boots and not having them stirs my stewing. Then I say to myself, “G, you have an opportunity here to practice nonattachment. Let go of the boots!”
So, I let go of the boots. By 10:30 we are in our sleeping bags listening to soothing sound of waves turning themselves inside out and my mood perks back to grateful.
At 4:30 a.m. I awake to see Marta sitting straight up in her bag staring out the front of the tent.
“What is it?” I ask assuming she’s heard something stirring outside.
 Nothing, I’m just watching the tide.
Silly me, I think it endearing that she is having a deep, existential moment with Mother Nature and I leave her to it and go back to sleep.
At 5:15 a.m. Gigi, wake up! The tide has reached the rocks. We are about to get soaked. 
What?!! #@$%^&*(@#!$%! You’ve been watching the tide this whole time thinking it might reach us and you had to wait until three waves before we are flooded to sound a warning?
We fumble for the flashlights,  bail out of the tent, pack everything up, us included, and scale the gravelly hill (in sandals!!) to the first flat ground to set up camp all over again.

Shortly after daylight, I peek out the tent and see on each end of our 100 yard stretch of beach a trail head leading up to the cliffs. Boot rage consumes. The prefacing question as to whether or not I should pack my hiking boots was, “Are there any good places to hike around there?”
No, not really.
Not really my ass.
“Let go of the boots, G!”
I do, and put on my Jesus Tevas. Once I rock climb the trail out of the beach bay I top out onto a cliffed shoreline that offers a breathtaking view of the ocean and a neighboring village.

Curiosity consumes me. There is a cow path to follow, suitable for goat hooves and shepherd’s feet toughened to the rugged conditions, but my babied footsies quickly complain. Again, I know the issue isn’t really the conditions, but the fact that I want my new boots! I make the discomfort of a briar scraping my toe or a sharp rock grazing my insole equal to that of a barbed whip coming down across my back. I’m on a martyr’s march.
I follow the trail for an hour and a half, through cow pastures, cobblestone streets,  a eucalyptus forest and eventually to an inlet where clam diggers fill their buckets with the deposits of the tide’s recession.
I’ve honed and chanted my mantra, “Let go of the boots, G!” a hundred times, yet on the way back when it starts to rain and my coat is at home in the closet, I lay my walking stick across my shoulders and hang an arm over each side like the Savior on a crucifix walking toward Calvary. I’m stuck in my own drama and I want to instill some guilt when I plod back into camp, cold, wet and limping.
It doesn’t work.
The weather forces a packup of all that shit we lugged down there and didn’t eat
and a drive to a little fishing village for a day of sightseeing all a dreary little fishing village has to offer.

That night we stay, legally, in a campground as crowded as Disneyland in June. When she comes out of the showers in a fresh change of clothes, I feel like throwing her in the bay. After my bath I have no choice but to put back on the damp, sour-smelling one pair of pants and shirt I was instructed to bring.
Let go of the boots, G…and the wet clothes and the late departure and the long haul to the campsite. Hold on to the beautiful beach all to yourself and the hike along the coast and the stars so clear in the night and the chance to see the north of Spain, and most importantly hold on to having someone who cares about you to share it all with.

That’s the latest, until I can get to recounting the 4 day trek on El Camino de Santiago. Hope all of you are swell and enjoying the change of seasons.
Much love, G

Travelogue 15: The Same in Spain Stays Mainly in the Plain

Dearest Friends and Family, Sept 26, 2011
Greetings from Valladolid, Spain. I’m high as a kite from a four day trek on El Camino de Santiago and can’t wait to share. As usual, though, I’m behind on updates, so first, here’s what was the latest three weeks ago. Truth is, I thought I already sent this. Woops.
Travelogue # 15: The Same in Spain Stays Mainly in the Plain September 11, 2011
I find myself in Valladolid for the third time this year (the fifth time in the last seven years). It’s not my habit to visit the same foreign destination more than once, given that I travel precisely to experience novelty. However, emotional motives have me stepping out of my borders and thus I'm doing something different by "been there done that" x7. This familiarity doesn’t mean I don’t still get lost every, single day. To get a mental picture of the layout of the place, take a hammer and whack a windshield. The epicenter is the Plaza Mayor and the cracks spiderwebbing outward are the streets. Change the name of each crack about every three inches and there you have a map of Valladolid. Usually when visiting a new place, I like to get lost so I can interact with the people, hear their accents, see things I hadn’t planned to, etc., but I’m over it here. I just want to get where I’m going pronto.
Quite frankly, I’m restless as a kid wanting cotton candy in the backseat of a Cadillac on the way home from school in June. So, to keep the ants in my pants fed and submissive, I’m looking at my stint here as an inward visit to a new place within myself. There’s still plenty of me to get to know and I still get very lost. Many mini-me’s stand on every corner to ask directions and consult on the best way to get where I want to go. It’s a question of patience--everything will be new in Uruguay.
Well, I’m yet to slide the frosty mug of brew down the lacquered slab of pine that I have romanticized about in previous missives. First, because they don’t serve beer in mugs here and the ballerina of a glass reserved for beer is likely to tip with the force of motion, tsunaming all in its path. Though I’m sure I would learn some new curse words as a result, I’d rather not cause such a ruckus. Not good for business. But besides that there are legal matters. I don’t have a work permit and I’m not covered under the insurance. Spaniards are so oxymoronic to me--laid back in matters of time, cursing and socializing, but excessively to the T with following rules. For example, the beer vendor Marta works with gave her some big umbrellas for the patio, but the police came by and said she had to take them down because they carry the distributor’s name and advertising is not allowed on shade umbrellas, or anything else stationary on the street. I’m a bit incredulous and think the truth of the matter is that the other day when a gust of wind come tunneling down the alley and blew one of the umbrellas over on an elderly man, he pulled some strings. It knocked him flat down and was about to drag him away. Some people don’t appreciate a Mary Poppins amusement ride.
It has not been a quiet week here in Lake Valladolid. I arrived smack dab in the middle of Mardi Gras al español. Spainards are very social normally and spend as much time in the parks and plazas as they do the house, but this week it’s out of control. Supposedly this is a religious celebration of the virgin of San Lorenzo or some such revered religious figure, but I do not see the connection between the excessive debauchery and homage to a holy heroine. I hope Sister Lorenzo did more than just protect her virginity to gain her status. It not doubt takes much self-restraint to refrain from sex one’s whole life, but that doesn’t mean I want to hang her from the rearview mirror or light a candle to her when I need something. All of these iconic virgins have a longing look in their eyes. It’s not a longing to be with the Father, or for Jesus to resurrect. It’s a flatout plea to please let them get laid, just once, and not in the manger. I’ve digressed.
Today is the last day of the festival and I am glad. Maybe I can sleep without earplugs for one night. Word is the masses will be hungover for 3 days and Valladolid will become a ghost town until they can stomach alcohol again. Bring on the tumbleweeds, I say, so I can get some sleep.
So really, there isn’t much to report. Marta works at the bar 12:30-4:30pm then again 7:30--some godawful hour of the morning. We see each other during siesta and late morning. I’m reading, writing, running and visiting with the homeless friends I made when I was here at Christmas. (See previous travelogues) More exciting stuff is sure to come.
Hope you all are well. Much love, Gigi

Travelogue 14, Virginia: Shaking with the Quakers

July 8-August 28, 2011
Greetings to All,
Holy Bogeezums! Was it really early July the last time I sent an update? What a whirlwind of a summer I’ve had! Condensed, I went from the 6 week’s stay at my cousin’s in Portsmouth, VA to Dallas, TX for a weekend to San Francisco for a 2 week tour management course to Albany, OR, to visit with a friend I hadn’t seen in 17 years to a stay with a friend from high school in Portland.  I am currently perched in Dallas, but not for long. From here it’s over the Atlantic and through the clouds to Marta’s house I go (Spain) for a month and then hitch a ride with the birds heading south to Uruguay for the winter. More on that later.
 I have started travel missives in every port I’ve visited, but never polished them enough to send any out, so this one will be a conglomerated hodge-podge of old anecdotes and out-of-date news capped off with a forecast. Since the missives tend to build upon one another, I’ve posted previous travelogues starting with Spain in Dec., 2010 on my resuscitated blog, not only for those in need of a memory spritzer, but also for the new readers (and the group is growing!).
Let’s start with a note on karma. You’ve heard me speak of it frequently in my writing and I’m a devout believer in it, which is exactly why this excerpt appeared in my journal: “I’ve been seated on this plane behind this guy who has been rocking out to some hearty song with a beat so invigorating that he hasn’t stopped banging his head up against the back of the seat since we left the ground.  He’s tall enough that about ½ of his skull clears the top of the headrest. I’m expecting at any minute for the back to break and his head to be in my lap with me leaning over him like a dentist about to do an exam. “Open wide and say ‘Ahhh’! while I drop this valium down your throat.” At least he is keeping the lyrics to himself. I’d appreciate it if he’d keep the rhythm to himself too. This inconvenience, of course, is a direct result of spilling the beans on Greyhound Gangsta Gurl.” (see the following blog if you don’t know who she is:  http://geesplat.wordpress.com/2011/06/20/travelogue-va-10-go-greyhound-and-leave-the-gagging-to-us/   )
I also brought upon myself a Sunchips hanging in the airport vending machine. It was a handsome piece of equipment this time, brand new and clearly labeled. I put in my money, pushed the buttons and watched the overgrown corkscrew twirl my bag of chips mere millimeters from falling, but alas they teetered on the edge like a cowardly kid holding up the line on the high dive. The deed that caused this disparaging dilemma was, of course, mule kicking that bucket of bolts in the Richmond bus station in the balls. (for the context read:  http://geesplat.wordpress.com/2011/06/27/travelogue-12-va-the-great-greyhound-gagging-cont/   )
And finally, remember the tick I found in my ear on the bus and called “a headless bastard?” About 4 days ago that bite raised from the dead and ever since has been leaking pus, which means it’s infected and if I’m not careful will spread and make my ear fall off. See? Cause and effect.
While we are on the subject of ticks, I got so wrapped up in the thrift story ( http://geesplat.wordpress.com/2011/07/08/travelogue-13-va-a-trip-to-the-thrift/ ) that I totally forgot why I even brought up Pop and his case of Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever. Understandably, he hates ticks. I mean hates their teeny-weeny guts with fervor, to the point of torturing them to the maximum extent possible. He keeps an empty tuna can half-full of gasoline on the back stoop and when he deticks the dogs, first he stabs them (the ticks, not the dogs!) with the point of his pocketknife, and then he throws the bastardly beasts into the gas bath to watch them swim around frantically flailing all 8 legs in a futile attempt to save themselves. Should one happen to get a hold on the side of the can and try to crawl out, he flicks it back in. Once they’ve suffered a slow drowning, he tosses a match in there and POOF! An arachnid crematorium. “Burn, baby, burn,” he says admiring his work. It makes him feel like God, I think, stoking the fires of Hell to deliver due justice for the sinner’s transgressions. It seems to me only fair that we do a blood analysis before sentencing them to such severe torture to see if they actually carry the disease. If not, a flush down the toilet would serve as an adequate punishment for just having the potential to be a carrier. It’s kind of like the difference between smoking a joint in your own living room and pretending to be the ice cream man to sell crack to kids. The idea of an act of mercy on my part should clear up this infection, no?
Speaking of mercy, here’s a story that follows “A Trip to the Thrift” and should get us back on chronological track:
“Shaking with the Quakers”                 Portsmouth, Va       July 3, 2011
I had a novel religious experience today, a Quaker Meeting. No, it was not an oatmeal convention, but rather a church service.  Seems to me I recall a mention of the Quakers in some elementary school textbook. They got their name from a permanentized neurological disorder brought on by being scared shitless of the mean Queen of England who hated oatmeal. They fled persecution and came to America to worship peacefully while soaking in tubs of Avena. That may or may not be accurate…you know how political textbooks can be.
No one quaked at this Sunday service, but the guy behind me sure shook the sanctuary. It started out as mild catnapping, but he went from dozing to deforestation in a matter of minutes. It’s clear he suffers from sleep apnea and needs to spend a night in one of those clinics where they suit your face up like a storm trooper’s,  connect everything else from the waist up to an electrode and wait behind a glass window, salivating, for an oxygen cell to fart. Anyway, this woodsman was making that double puff sound on the exhalation that precedes the arrested inhalation that frightens wives into assuming CPR position over their husband’s chest right there in the bed in the middle of the night. Then he would blow out a loud buck snort, the kind a male deer makes when the does are in high rut. He seemed to rouse himself to a semi-conscious state with his own mating call, though not enough for embarrassment to snap him to, so I and everyone else who was awake were embarrassed for him.
A bit about Quaker meetings: the gathering is held in total silence and there is no minister. If someone feels lead to speak, he or she stands and delivers what’s on his or her heart, but otherwise it’s an hour of mute communal meditation. An eternal hell for the A.D.D. Since Sleepy had no competition, he was alone on stage at the opera house and a meditating mind didn’t have a snowball’s chance of staying focused on peace, love, nothingness or a mantra unless already enlightened, which would negate the need to reincarnate into human form in the first place. I, still more mortal than Mary, went through a range of emotions, not all of them loving. First, irritation. I came here to reflect in silence and find inner peace. He was disturbing mine and should have stayed home if all he was going to do was sleep. Was it a guilty conscious that made him come? The cookies and Kool-Aid afterwards? Was the pew his perfect Sleep Number?  Whatever the reason, it was not good enough to justify ruining our holy experience.
Then I was amused. My cousin and I caught eyes and were like two silly eight-year-olds who had seen that Mrs. Smirtrodder had tucked the hem of her dress into the waistband of her pantyhose upon the last visit to the restroom and was oblivious to the extra ventilation. The louder he snored, the worse our fit of the giggles got until I was answering his stag song with my own snorting. Finally, I just had to turn away from my cousin and think about cement drying.
Amusement morphed into a mix of pissed pity. I thought about wadding up the piece of paper I was writing this story down on to throw at him. I had planned on not turning around to see my target and just chuck it over my shoulder trusting an internal infrared radar system to guide it right between his eyes. I decided against it knowing I would never remember all these details and besides that he might unwad the paper, read it, forget Quakers are pacifists and beat the shit out of me in the parking lot after the service. I imagined the guy to be a Santa look-alike sitting with his arms crossed and his chin nestled in a nest of white whiskers on his chest, but no, when annoyance overwhelmed me and I finally whirled around to shoot him a look, a thirty-something-year-old was stretched out prostrate on the pew. My daddy’s voice said, “He is in the House of the Lord!” and my mama’s said, “He’ll soil the upholstery with those dirty tennis shoes!” and I said, “Wake the fuck up before I come back there, tip that pew up like the bed of a toy Tonka and roll your unholy ass onto the floor!” Obviously, my emotions had cycled with his R.E.M and I was back to irritation.
At long last the service came to a close and the sound of parishioners greeting one another raised him from the dead. He sat up on the bench rubbing his eyes and looking hung over.  “Have a nice nap?” I asked with a notable tone of sarcasm, before extending my hand to introduce myself. “Sure did!” her responded cheerfully while yawning and stretching himself back to life. Next Sunday, I thought, I’m bringing a pillow and blankie, not for him, but for me. He was leaving the sanctuary in a much better mood than I was.
I think I’ll close with that, so as to not wear out the welcome mat of your screen. As for the forecast: Sept. 6 I leave for Spain.  Marta has her bar up and running and has moved into a new apartment a few blocks away. Valladolid starts its “ferias” on Friday, which is a typical fair for any small town minus the carnies.  Lots of food vendors in the streets and entertainment in the plaza. It should bring booming business to the bar. Maybe I’ll get to slide that frosty mug down the counter afterall! Oct 6 I’ll leave straight from Spain for Punta del Diablo, Uruguay for a two prong job at El Diablo Tranquilo (  http://eldiablotranquilo.com/lang/en-us/ ). Primarily, I’ll be working in reception, but also they would like for me to set up a language immersion program to bring in more guests. So, that’s the plan in general terms. TBC
Would love to hear back from you! I’ve caught up with most of my Dallas friends, but the rest of you remain at large.
Much love and many thanks, as always, G

Travelogue 13, Virginia: A Trip to the Thrift

Portsmouth, VA, July 1-8, 2011
First, to answer the much asked question from the last missive, how in the world did you get all those ticks? I would tell you that I got them from a greyhound, but it would be a story, in the sense of a lie. The truth is when I go home to the Holler, I have the habit, when it’s not hunting season, of walking our 65 acre wooded property at dawn. I’d guess that the tick population on a hunk of land that size would surpass the people population of China. The chances of coming upon a tick are about that of meeting a Mexican in Mexico. The day of the bus ride I observed the morning ritual and had I a grain of sense would have taken a shower after finding the first coochie moocher hitching a ride on my most private parts. But no, perhaps unconsciously foreseeing the fate ahead of me, I knew it would be a waste of water.
While on the topic of ticks, here’s another interesting aside about Pop, who you have learned from previous missives, believes in banana peel healings, Slimfast chasers and measuring time by the rate at which a duck fart bubble will break the water’s surface. When he was 19-years-old he contracted Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, which in 1940, had a high fatality rate, even more so for a country boy like him. He was born in a cabin in the woods not far from our home and in those days somebody had to go fetch the doctor. He came to you, you didn’t go to him. Pop was bedridden with a high fever and headache for over a week and couldn’t keep down even his momma’s homemade chicken soup. In his words, “I came within a gnat’s nose of dying.” According to him, doctors wanted to conduct medical studies to find out why it didn’t kill him when so many others succumbed.  He attributes his faith in the Lord to his spared life and that can’t be found in no blood sample. I asked him last time I was home how he’s lived to age 90. “Just tough, I reckon, and living by what the Good Book says,” was his reply. Maybe there is more to that simple-minded answer than I give credit, but I’ll save my reflections on that for a later date.
At present, my cousins have gone off on a get-away to celebrate their anniversary, or maybe just to celebrate my departure next week, but in any case, I have the house to myself. We’ve started week 5 of cohabitation and joking aside, we’ve very much enjoyed our togetherness. I’ve grown accustomed to constant company, so much so that they hadn’t been gone 24 hours when I ventured out in search of brethren at the Church of the Holy Thrift.
Thrifting, usually, is a religious experience for me, which is why I thought it would do me good. I didn’t take into account before going, however, that I can’t buy a single thing for myself. It’s not that I don’t have the money; I’ll prostitute to not miss out on a real bargain.  It’s that I don’t have the space. Where in the hell am I going to put a purchase? Not even a pair of underwear will fit in my bulging backpacks without the displacement of some other article. I suppose I could wear an extra pair on my head like a rapper’s stocking cap with holes for bunny ears. It would just be through the airport and other public transportation systems until I reach my next destination with a drawer. Or I could double up and wear two pair at a time like I used to do when I got old enough to dress myself. I’d come in the kitchen and try to fool Mom.
- “How many pairs of panties do you think I have on?”
- “Let me guess. Two.”
-“How did you know?!?”
-“Oh, a mother just knows… (that you wouldn’t think to ask if you only had on one” went unsaid.)
Yes, I buy underwear at a thrift store. See just how bad the addiction is? Aside from clothes, let’s say during my outing I saw a lamp that I absolutely could not live without. I buy it, and then what? Carry it proud as punch to the Good Will three blocks down the road for the tax write-off? I can hear myself bragging to passerby’s, “Hey, take a look at this lamp I got at the thrift up the street for $5.95. I never got a chance to plug it in, but isn’t she a beaut? Can you believe it? $5.95 Wasn’t that a steal?”
And then there is the nostalgia issue. Because I furnished my house with shit I picked up off the side of the road and refurbished, everything in thrift stores reminds me of a treasure I sold in that fit of mid-life crisis duress and fulfilling the South American tour guide dream. Actually, I think it was a touch of PMS that sent me over the edge and made me stake the “Estate Sale” sign in the front yard. At any rate, flea markets, bulk trash days and thrift stores all catch in my throat and I repeat at nausea the mantra that got me through the sale, “I lovingly release my possessions so that they may bless others and make room in my life for joyful experiences. P.S. May the asshole who took them from me be sick of them in two years and donate them to the Garland Road Thrift so I can buy them back.”
The upside of my trip to the thrift is I got to spend much more time in the presence of others than I had expected. People at thrift stores have no concept of time. Most of the shoppers are unemployed, which is why they have to shop there in the first place, and the employees wish they were unemployed, so they blatantly drag ass hoping a supervisor will notice. Case in point, I get in line with my one measly purchase, a $1.98 picture frame, with which I will make an anniversary gift for my cousins and thus rid myself of it within 24 hours. There is a woman in her sixties in front of me with the god-awfulest conglomeration of shit in her cart you ever saw. Amongst other things, she has a curling iron (though her hair was already so kinky she had to wear it in corn rows), a set of those Kool-Aid plastic popsicle trays, a glassless picture frame, a toy fire truck, a coconut hull from Hawaii carved into a monkey (are there even monkeys in Hawaii besides at the zoo?) and a big, mateless salad fork. I’d say that last one is for whoopin’ some grandkid butt more than tossing greens. Some of the prices on these items were written by a kindergartner using his nondominate hand and thus their exactness was up for debate. She was going to use that to her advantage.
The woman who was in front of the woman in front of me lingered after her checkout to pose the question to all three of us, “Ya’ll think that Casey Anthony girl killed her baby?” I haven’t watched the news in over a month and had no earthly idea what she was talking about. So as to not seem ignorant, though, I answered, “Well, I just can’t make up my mind.” Neither could these two women bickering over a 15 cent difference on a good for nothing coconut monkey she would never be able to give as a gift without lying unless she buys a $2,000 plane ticket the island state. And I’ll tell you what, thrifting can drive a person to do crazy things like that in the name of a bargain. It’s a classifiable mental illness--the antithesis of a gambling addiction.
A chance to put their two cents worth in on this apparently highly publicized case called for a truce, and brought the checkout process to a screeching halt. The 17-year-old cashier was much more adept at talking than multitasking.  Lucky for her I’m amongst the unemployed, because under normal circumstances I would have been so impatient with all of this nonsense that I would have either: 1) dumped my stuff on the counter and walked out 2) tapped my foot, jangled my keys, put my hands on my hips, made that “huh” sound loudly and finally said “get the lead out or I’m going for a manager” 3) told her to stand aside. I used to work for the Container Store, at the register, and I’d show her how it’s done. When I was teaching and had papers to grade, parents to call, Chata to walk, meetings to attend, plants to water, lesson plans to make, clothes to wash, etc, I didn’t have time for patience and if you did, you needed to be fired and a less laid-back person take your place. But today was different. What was the hurry? All I really had to do before the day’s end was worry over not having a full time job, and I could do that perfectly fine standing right there in line. And, of course, I could see the fodder for a story piling up to the ceiling, so I wasn’t going anywhere.
First-in-line believes the momma was crazy and she couldn’t help it. Furthermore, the grandma knew the little girl was dead and is just “snowballing” it. She’s the one who should go to jail. (I’d never heard the word “snowball” used to mean cover up--see what you can learn at the thrift store?) Second-in-line contests that there’s not enough evidence pointing toward the momma or the granny and it was the Zanny nanny who should be locked up. Cashier blames the daddy and says he drugged that baby and she fell in the pool and drown.  For some reason they all directed their comments toward me as if I were the jury they had to convince. I was the perfect juror, as ignorant on the subject as a squirrel is about douching.  (Where did I come up with that???) I stood by impartially, my head rotating trilaterally like a referee watching a 3-way ping pong match, marveling at the skill with which these women defended their arguments.  I bet that when they aren’t thrifting they are at home studying tabloids and watching Jerry Springer just waiting for a chance to make a case before an imposturous Judge Judy.
In the end the jury (or should I say juror?) was undecided, Casey Anthony exonerated, the checkouts completed and everyone released to go home for lunch, or maybe it was supper. Thrift shoppers have no concept of time, nor heed hunger pains until the appetite for bargains is first satiated.
The otherwise update this time is that there is a job offer is on the table, but I dare not disclose who, what, when, where, why or how least it be jinxed. Until I get their bank account number on file and a contract signed in blood stating that in the event of a breach of the agreement, I will be reimbursed for all expenses incurred plus receive six months of pay, I shall make no announcements.
Next Thursday I FLY to Dallas just long enough to get a haircut, empty a suitcase, go to the thrift store to buy some clothes dressy enough for the tour management course and get back on a plane bound for San Francisco. We’ll see what story-worthy adventures transpire in those travels.
As always much love and many thanks for reading, G

Travelogue 12, Virginia: The Great Greyhound Gagging con't

June 24-30, 2011
I have felt the love and thank you for indulging my moment of insecurity. Many a  starfish waved a paw in response to my need for affirmation signaling that all my effort is not in vain. So, in the words of my high school softball coach, who was one of the first to respond, “Quit contemplating your navel and get back to work!” On with the Great Greyhound Gagging saga!
If I recall correctly, we left off in the Charlottesville bus station with my proclamation that I would NOT get back on that bus!
Well, I did….
Between my declaration and my betrayal of it, the following happened:
The driver flat out insulted me to my face. I stomped off to the bathroom frantically dialing on the way my cousin who was to pick me up in Norfolk. Once in the stall, I hung up before she could answer. Now that my breathing had returned to normal and a decent receptacle was in front of me, I didn’t know which end of my body was going to take advantage of it first. I stood there a minute trying to decide if I needed to face the toilet or the door. I hadn’t eaten since early morning, so my stomach had nothing with which to express its feelings about the situation, so I had a four hour pee, or so it seemed, and called my cousin. She got a hysterical earful that ended with, “I’ll call you back when I find out what time the next bus for Norfolk leaves.”
“1 o’clock tomorrow! The next bus doesn’t leave until 1 o’clock tomorrow!!” began the second hysterical phone call.
I ran like O.J. through an airport to get my place in the reboard line. Please, please, please, Power that Be, grant me the open seat up front of someone whose final destination was Charlottesville! My prayer was answered, on the third row, next to a woman suffering from schizophrenia.  To her it was obvious she already had a seatmate and if I plopped my butt down there, I would squish him. I asked permission to take the seat and she responded by pointing to him and conferring with the window.  I was very sorry, but I was not going back there, no matter whose lap I had to sit on. Anything of mine that crossed the dividing line of our seats sent her cringing to the point of melding her body into the side of the bus. I felt like a leaper and wanted Jesus to come cure me ASAP. I wanted to take her hand in mine and tell her I understood and she didn’t have to fear me, but I knew if I moved even a millimeter more into her space it could cause a total meltdown. So, I tried to hug the aisle, send loving vibs and went back to writing.
Unbeknownst to me, we had left in this portable gas chamber only a one hour ride to Richmond where everybody had to change buses. I might not have made such an ass out of myself had I known that. A 45 minute layover would be plenty of time to get something to eat and recompose myself for the final leg of the trip. I was hungrier than a bear sow stumbling out of the cave in spring with three cubs hanging off her tits.  Uncle Bo’s Chicken Hut, or something like that, was the only eating establishment in the station and looked decent enough from a distance, but once I saw the selection of nothing but fried fowl parts under the greasy glass, I did a 1-80 toward the vending machines.
All I had was a 20, so I went to the arcade to use the change machine. To hang a “broken” sign on it seemed redundant. Nobody in their right mind would believe that a machine as abused as that one could possibly be in service. Back to Bo’s, which now had a line as long as the bus x 4, and I was not going to stand in it when all I wanted was change.
You may remember that back in March under the influence of midlife crisis duress and fulfilling a dream, I sold everything I owned, save my house and a few boxes of sentimental junk. Thus, all my remaining possessions must go where I go without a mule to haul it. Well, actually, I suppose I am my own mule and thus looked like this: 5’0”, 98lb me with a bulging baby blue 43 liter pack mounted on my back and a rolled up sleeping pad strapped across the top of it (none of which I was about to take off because it takes a village to get it back on). Hanging from my chest, kangaroo style, I had a smaller backpack with my laptop, books, wallet, essentials, etc. to offset the weight and at least maintain a three steps forward, two stumbling back ratio. And behind me I was dragging a suitcase full of camping equipment big enough for me to fit in, should the need arise.
Not many years ago Richmond boasted sixth place on the list of America’s most dangerous cities to live in and I would add most creepy bus station to pass through.   I’ve been in dozens of stations in countries all over Latin-American, but I’ve never felt so paranoid of being robbed as I was in Richmond.  Point: I was not leaving any of my stuff unattended for a second and it was staying as close to me as white on rice no matter how small the space.
Back at Uncle Bo’s, I and my traveling getup bumped and excused our way up to the front of the line to ask for change.
“I ain’t giving you nothing less you buy something.”
“Well, can you sell me a bottle of water?”
“If you come through the line like everybody else.”
As I swung around to go a woman’s voice spat at me from behind, “You best be looking out where you going, gurl--you ‘bout knocked this drink out of my hand! You need to be paying attention to what you doin’!’” My sleeping pad had whacked her at boob level, just as she pulled her Coke out of the drink fountain. Seven hours of aroma therapy topped off with an hour of rejection had stirred up in me enough nasty sentiment to rip somebody a new one. She was at least a foot taller and 50lbs heavier, but I was in the mood to take her on.  What was there to fear? I was totally padded on all sides except for my face. If I turned the other cheek I could mule kick her and take her out at the knees. The heavens parted, however, and a holy hand reached down to hold my hoof. My momma’s ghost intervened and whispered in my ear one of her wise sayings, “Kill them with kindness.” Nice washed over me, Ms. Rude was spared an ass-whoopin’ and I said sweetly, “I am so sorry, ma’m. Will you please accept my apology?”
That changed her tune. “Well, baby, I’s just afraid you was gonna make me drop this drink.”
“Well, I didn’t,” I wanted to say and ask for a dollar for the vending machine in lieu of an apology.
Still in the change predicament, I went to the ticket counter and before I opened my mouth I could see by the agent’s chubby scowl that if I got a ten, a five and 5 ones it was going to cost me. Too bad the vending machine didn’t accept attitude. She handed me enough of that to buy the thing empty.
I spied the healthiest product in there, Sunchips, and my mouth gushed spit with anticipation. Clink, clink, look for the code to push. What??!! No codes? What the hell kind of Russian Roulette vending machine is this? I told myself to calm down and use my noggin. The top row would be A, the next B, etc and the numbers would follow suit. I press C6 and down falls a pack of Wriggle’s spearmint gum. O.K. then, the letters run horizontally. F3-Lifesavors. D9 Little Debbie chocolate cakes. E4-Tootsie Rolls. And so on I went, calling my own Bingo numbers, but never yelling Bingo! Instead I shook the machine by its shoulders and screamed, “I want my fuckin’ Sunchips you worthless bucket-of-bolts! Now drop them before I mule kick you in the balls!!
Who was talking to the window now, but with much less composure than my former seatmate?
The passengers for my bus were lining up, so I took my armful of unwanted loot and got in line. My blood sugar was so low by then that if I ate any of the 100% pure sugar shit in my collection, I’d go into an insulin coma and get robbed right down to my Hanes Her Ways. Gum was the best bet to stave off starving.
Just for the record, the woman I whacked in Uncle Bo’s got on the bus huffing, “It wasn’t there! Them damn bitches done robbed me! Can’t trust nobody now-a-days!”  A fine case of evidence to support my belief that karma rules.
I took a front seat by a sleeping blind man, sure that we’d get along just fine and I could finally relax. A blind woman sat ahead of us and Mouthy Ms. Rude behind. To my right an elderly woman, obviously wanting her space, had walled herself in behind a suitcase, shopping bags and a purse big enough for me to fit in, should the need arise. All I could see were her knees on which rested a large print Bible open to a page in the book of Job where the verses consist of nothing more than a genealogical diatribe of Abraham’s descendents. She had highlighted all but one sentence, which made me wonder who the black sheep of the family was. What had he done to not merit a swipe of the holy marker? Did he bare the same name of a son-in-law she hated? Too, I wanted to know why, unless shopping for baby names, anyone would find inspiration in a list of obsolete names, most of which are unpronounceable to the English speaking tongue.  Perhaps giving it a go is a mental exercise to ward off brain atrophy. Who knows?
We hadn’t been on the road more than fifteen minutes when I noticed a barely perceivable discomfort on the cartilage part of my right ear. It wasn’t pain exactly, just a tickle. I ran my finger around the loopy maze and felt a small bump smack dab in the hard to reach center. Great, of all the times to be surrounded by the visually impaired. I messed with it a minute, blindly trying to identify it as wax, dirt, a pimple or punishment for gossip. On one swipe it did a handstand with the help of my fingernail. I had a TICKle alright, burrowed as deep in my flesh as a mongoose in its den. I was sure of it, because just that morning what I mistook for underwear elastic pulling on a public hair turned out to be a tick mooching off my coochie. I finally got the one in my ear between thumb and forefinger, pulled like hell and upon examination saw only the body of the headless bastard. My ear began to throb and I thought of the worst.  Limes disease! Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever! We studied those in WFR. Both can be fatal. Stress and toxic shock had so jeopardized my immune system that I was sure to succumb.
My dear cousins met me at the station with a water bottle full of chilled chardonnay, which I gulped down between paragraphs of telling this same story. I wanted food, a shower, medical attention and sympathy, and made those needs known with no bones about it. Did they not love me so much they might have dumped my ass out on the side of the road reneging their invitation to stay as long as I wanted.
Priority: a shower. I stripped down, looked down and saw buried in the soft flesh of my belly two 8-legged poppy seeds…and then more brown spots on my thighs, my chest, my torso, my ankles!! They were everywhere! Geezus, F’n, Christmas! Was there no curtain call to this drama?
“Gwynne!! Come quick and bring tweezers! Bring needles! Bring knives! Bring alcohol, both kinds!”
By the end of the extractions, we had removed two ticks and bloodied ten moles. I was over it. I ate, drank, doctored the wounds and went to bed, swearing I’d hitchhike before every going Greyhound again.
Otherwise update: Marta’s bar is up and running and she has done/is doing everything I thought I was going to get to help with during the two months in Spain. She’s cleaned, painted, decorated and inaugurated the space and now slides frothy mugs of beer down the bar, like I wanted to.
I have made plans to see me through August. Stay with cousins in Portsmouth until July 14, pass through Dallas for a brief three days, attend a two-week course at the International Tour Management Institute (and stay with a friend I taught English with in Ecuador in 1993--very excited about that reunion!), head north to Albany, Oregon to visit another friend I haven’t seen in 18 years, and then finish off the trip with a stay in Portland with a high school friend. I keep a low-grade anxiety about all of this instability and sporadic income and flat-out uncertainty, but had I not uprooted myself the chances of seeing these wonderful people from my past (all in one swoop) are slim. Faith is the cure for my anxiety, but it doesn’t come easily to me. Perhaps that’s the whole purpose for this journey.
As always, much love and many thanks for reading. Were it not for you, I’d have little reason to write and it would be ungrateful to not practice the gift Source gave me.  Peace, G

Travelogue 11, Virginia: Reflections from the Silence

June 20-24, 2011
Dear Friends and Family,
Putting all your heart into your writing and then letting people read it is like volunteering to host the Grammies stripped down to your skivvies. It’s a real knee-knocker. In the 10 years I’ve been sending them out, my travel missives have received at a minimum 5-10 responses per publication… until Go Greyhound and Leave the Gagging to Us broke the record, on the underside, with one hand clapping in the forest. I thought at least one person would exclaim, “Can’t wait for part II!” but alas even my most faithful followers who have been with me since Peru 2001 remain silent. Here I reflect on the experience.
No response is exactly the response I most needed! Emerson said, “Do the thing you fear, and the death of fear is certain.” I asked my Diary the other day, just how would one go about facing the fear of opinions, or a lack of them? It’s not as easy as letting a cobra crawl on your back to overcome a fear of snakes or scaling a skyscraper to confront acrophobia. Diary answered, write and let people read it. Few things can make you feel as vulnerable.
I brought this testing of my courage upon myself two missives ago when I declared a Just fuck it! war on my midlife crisis. I quote myself as saying, “what’s ‘wrong’ with my life…what has kept me from fulfilling any of my dreams or my highest potential is worrying about what others might think.” The puddle of not knowing in which I dogpaddle at the moment is a gift, an opportunity to reflect on the dangers of assuming. Here’s what’s been going through my mind in the wake of  the taciturnity this last missive provoked, followed by a just as feasible thought to replace it.
-Mom always said, “if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything
at all.” Nobody has said anything because they have nothing nice to say.
-I just read a blog entry that was amusing and touched me deeply, but    
     I didn’t send the woman a note saying so. Why am I assuming nobody  
    read it, or didn’t like it if they did?
-It (the missive)was offensive. People are thinking it was racist.
-I know I didn’t intend for it to be and that I practice do no harm to the best of my ability. I used dialectical dialogue that identified race and age, just like I use it to poke fun at the way we talk in the Holler. I did it to bring readers into the moment.
-It was too gross. People don’t want to read about pee and poop.
-I can’t help it. The Austin genes carry a sense of humor that is often crude and if I am to be true to myself, my writing will be raw as well.
-It was boring. Why would anybody give a rat’s ass about my bus ride? My writing is at best mediocre.
-I amused the hell out of myself writing it and that’s what matters most.
Remember the story about the guy tossing beached starfish back into the sea?
Someone says to him that he is wasting his time and can’t possibly make a difference because there are thousands of starfish dying on the burning sand. He threw the one in his hand back to the ocean and replied, “It made a difference to that one.”                                                     
-It was too long. People are bombarded with stuff to read and my writing isn’t making the cut.
- My model at the moment is Bill Bryson’s 245 page travel memoir Neither Here Nor There. It’s all about making it real and that takes paint, or in other words, words. The goal is write so well the reader can’t put it down. If I’m
not there yet, so be it.
-I’m exaggerating too much and I’ve lost my credibility.
-I’ve told them over and over that my stories start with a true event and then my imagination takes over. That’s what makes them fun to write and amusing to read. It’s my trademark. Call it Magical Realism, if that makes it more acceptable.
In the end, these travel missives are but practice, not just of the art of writing, but the highs and lows of praise and criticism. Sometimes it’s as sweet as the smile of my great-niece, Rayna, and sometimes it stinks worse that an overflowing bus toilet. I’ll steal from Nike, who updated Emerson and conclude with Just Do It…and wait for my starfish to clamor for part II.
As always, many thanks for reading and much love for just being who you are in my life, G